‘Then he should share my cab,’ said the cleric.
‘I would be grateful,’ said Tom.
‘I told him it wasn’t a night for walking,’ said the porter, who’d said no such thing. Tom clambered in after the older man, and the porter stowed his case and the clergyman’s bags. He closed the small double doors, which protected the travellers’ lower limbs, at the same time calling to the cabman, ‘The cathedral close, Alfred.’
The driver waited until the vehicle in front had drawn off before he rattled the reins and the cab creaked and swayed away from the lights of the railway station. The inside space was limited and even though Tom’s companion was thin and small-boned with age, they were pressed together by the motion of the cab. They were surrounded by wet fog, interrupted by the occasional smudge of light from an uncurtained window. Even the clopping of the horse’s hooves seemed muffled by the dankness. The animal must have known his route by instinct.
‘Something is amiss?’ said the old clergyman, tapping Tom Ansell on the arm. Tom was surprised at the familiarity of the gesture and only just prevented himself from giving a start. Then he realized how his posture must be giving him away. His coat was unbuttoned and he was gripping his knees tightly. His back was rigid.
‘Surely a young man like you — a lawyer from London — doesn’t fear a spill from a provincial carriage? You can relax.’
‘No, there is nothing wrong, sir. It’s merely that I saw something which. . disturbed me on the station platform.’
As he said these last words, the scene flashed before his eyes again: the silhouette at the platform’s edge, the other man sneaking up to push him over. Then his mind caught up with his companion’s ‘lawyer’ comment. He turned to look at the individual beside him in the backwash from the carriage lights. Apart from a clean-shaven roundness to the elderly cleric’s face, Tom couldn’t make out much between the brim of the shovel-hat and the muffler. What he’d glimpsed moments earlier by the cab rank might have suggested a rather unworldly figure, an impression strengthened by his helplessness over the dropped money. But the impression was evidently wrong.
Without waiting to be asked how he knew about Tom’s line of work, the cleric now said, ‘Forgive me, I know it is impolite of me to claim a profession for you when we haven’t even been introduced. I am Canon Eric Selby.’
‘Thomas Ansell. And, yes, I plead guilty to being a lawyer. Is it so obvious?’
‘Well, I could say that there are not so many professions open to an educated young man who must earn his living. There is the Church. . ‘business’ perhaps. . the army. . the law. I might claim, without offence I hope, that you don’t appear to be cut from the same cloth which makes a clergyman. As for ‘business’, I think not. Nor do you have a soldier’s bearing. Which more or less leaves us with the law. But, my dear sir, the conclusive proof is that I noticed you clutching a copy of Baxter’s On Tort when you were kind enough to pick up my scattered money just now. No sane man would read Baxter for pleasure.’
This was the book which had so comprehensively failed to capture Tom’s interest on the journey. He could feel the bulk of the thing in his coat-pocket. He laughed and said, ‘I should have packed some other reading matter for the train. On Tort is not very diverting at the best of times. You’re obviously familiar with it, Canon Selby.’
‘I had a friend who swore by it. Indeed I considered the law myself for a brief time before plumping for the Church,’ said the other. ‘Just as you considered the army, Mr Ansell.’
This time Tom really did start. He said nothing but waited for the cleric to explain himself. Did this man have second sight?
‘No miracle, sir,’ said Canon Selby, not trying to keep the pleasure at the success of his deductions out of his voice. ‘When I mentioned the army as a possible profession you gave a slight sigh and pulled away, which told me that the subject had. . crossed your mind in some way. Not a very favourable way, perhaps.’
‘Then I must be more careful of my sighs,’ said Tom, feeling slightly put out and thinking how absurd it was to be having this conversation — given the oddly intimate turn it was taking — with an elderly cleric while driving in a cab through a fog-bound and unfamiliar town. ‘You are right though. I did consider the army as a career.’
‘I knew it!’ said Canon Selby. He spoke with such delight that it was impossible to feel irritated with him.
Tom said, ‘You are a loss to my profession, sir. No one in a court of law would have a chance against you.’
‘If you’ve been listening to people for as long as I have, Mr Ansell, you learn that what is said in words is only the half of it, less than half indeed. One looks at the little movements we all make, one listens for the suppressed sighs and unexpected stresses underlying the words. Now tell me what happened on the Salisbury station platform which so disturbed you.’
There was something in the man’s voice and manner which encouraged trust so Tom gave an account of what he’d witnessed. It didn’t take long. To his surprise, Canon Selby accepted his story straightaway.
‘You say that the railwayman didn’t believe you?’
‘From his attitude, no. He probably thought I’d been drinking or that the fog was making me see things.’
‘It might be worth reporting this to the authorities,’ said the cleric. ‘The police are not up to very much in this place but there is at least one good man in the force. Inspector Foster can be relied on.’
‘I am not sure there’s anything to be reported,’ said Tom. ‘No harm has been done. There was no sign of a body on the tracks — or of any assailant either.’
‘Well then, it might be better to leave it, I suppose. But remember Foster is the man to go to.’
As they’d been talking the cab had entered a more densely populated area of the town. There were passers-by, singly or in muffled groups, shifting shapes in the fog, as well as other carriages. There were glimpses of shop-fronts and chop houses and inns.
‘You are going to the Poultry Cross?’ said Canon Selby.
‘To an inn nearby. The Side of Beef, it’s called.’
‘One of the town’s oldest hostelries. We have had an establishment called The Haunch of Venison since medieval times and the common belief is that The Side of Beef was set up in opposition to it by a disgruntled pot-man from the Haunch. Jenkins is the proprietor now. He chatters away. Well, we are all but there.’
The old man rapped on the side of the cab and they slowed. As if on cue, an inn sign proclaimed itself as The Side of Beef in light thrown from the parlour window.
‘I will not ask you your business here, Mr Ansell, but perhaps we shall meet again. Salisbury is not a large place.’
Tom was about to say that he had an appointment at a house in the close the next morning, but some lawyerly caution prevented him from doing more than returning Canon Selby’s wish and thanking him for his company and advice. The cleric lifted a hand in acknowledgement before adjusting his shovel-hat and settling back into the corner of the cab. Tom climbed down, retrieved his case and paid the driver. He watched while the cab pulled away into the fog. He looked up at the inn sign as if there might be some question whether he had come to the right place. The image of a bloodied carcass of beef hanging on a frame looked more like a sacrifice than an invitation to dine. The inn was a timber-frame building with a lopsided look and first-floor windows that projected slightly over the street.
While his attention was elsewhere, a woman walking briskly along the pavement banged into him. She was of middle height, was wearing a large hat and had her head down. Taken by suprise, Tom found himself thrown into her shoulder and well-padded collar. ‘Oops,’ she said. The word was curiously drawn out: ‘ooops’. Tom mumbled his apologies, expecting the woman to walk on, but she took a pace back. Quick dark eyes looked him up and down. She was well dressed, a little garishly too with a red band round her hat and a billow of yellow skirt showing beneath her coat, and though not young she was not so far into middle age either.